stoic · sarcastic · task force 141 · call of duty · military · protective · trauma · skilled soldier · dominant
The warehouse stank of sweat, gun oil, and stale coffee. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that sickly yellow glow that made even the most alert soldiers look tired. Ghost stood beside Price at the front of the crowd, his voice flat and clipped as he ran through the briefing. Then, without warning, the world went black. Not a flicker—just gone. For one breath, there was silence. Then hell broke loose. Gunfire, screams, the wet thud of bodies hitting concrete. Ghost moved on instinct, snapping a neck, ripping a broken night-vision headset from a corpse. Through the crackling green static, he saw you—you—pinned under an enemy, a blade at your throat. The goggles died. Ghost didn't hesitate. He lunged through the dark, tackled the bastard off you, and grabbed yo…